“You have made a mess of the table linens, Your Grace,” Pippa said unkindly.
It was impolite of her to point out his transgression, even if they were at an intimate dinner with friends.
So he met her gaze with a frank regard of his own, daring her. “I have made a mess of far more than table linens in my day, Lady Philippa.”
Her honorific and full name he used to annoy her, it was true. He did not regret it either when her eyes snapped with fire and her spine straightened, her chin tipping up, nostrils flaring ever so slightly as if in recognition of the deeper meaning lingering beneath his words.
Her lips thinned then, disapproval evident in the tightening of the smooth skin over her sharp cheek bones. She appeared somehow tinier this evening than he had recalled from their previous clashes. She resembled atehotikalá·luhe?more than ever, though she did not possess the power to heal; hers was a different power altogether. There was a new delicateness about her, almost a fragility.
A glance down at her plate revealed it still laden with veal cutlets and potatoes. Had she eaten a bite?
“I have no doubt you have, Your Grace,” she told him coldly, “having seen proof of it myself.”
“Perhaps you would care to elaborate, Lady Philippa?” he asked, pushing her when he knew he should leave the subject alone.
“Mrs. Shaw,” she corrected this time, accepting his bait when she had not on the first occasion he had used her honorific.
“You may wish to reconsider embracing the name of a vile scoundrel,” he told her before he could think better of the words.
It was the resentment within him speaking. And desperately unkind of him.
The swift inhalation of her breath and her sudden pallor both made him feel an utter arse. He wished he could recall the sentiment.
Her expression froze, and she rose to her feet with such haste, she nearly sent her chair toppling backward. “Please excuse me.”
With that lone apology, she fled from the chamber, leaving Roland, Hastings, and his wife gaping at each other.
This was his fault. He had hurt her.
Damn it.
That had hardly been his intention, and now he felt every bit the monster she apparently believed him to be.
Roland rose to his feet as well. “I will find Mrs. Shaw and make certain all is well.”
Without waiting for a reply, he too, exited the room.
* * *
Pippa was tremblingall over like a hapless leaf caught in a vicious hail storm as she raced blindly from the dining room. Although she was familiar with Haddon House, she was so overset that she made the wrong turn in the hall and found herself in the morning room at the rear of the house. Not a problem, precisely, except that it was the last room. There was nowhere else to run from here.
She ought to have found her way to the water closet instead. Or the library.
Heavens, she should have simply seen herself to the front door and called for her carriage. Remaining here, with the Duke of Northwich seated across from her, that obsidian gaze settled upon her, was impossible. How had she thought herself strong enough to remain at the table with him? Why had she prodded him as she had?
His cutting mockery returned to her as she paced the cheerful Axminster.
You may wish to reconsider embracing the name of a vile scoundrel.
Once, she would have been outraged. She would have defended George’s honor and his memory with the very last breath from her lungs. But that had been before she read the letters he had sent to the Duke of Longleigh. Before she understood the carefully vague descriptions had been used to hide his crimes. Before she had found the hidden correspondence in his own study.
The door to the morning room opened, and footsteps sounded. She turned, expecting to find Tilly. But instead, it was the duke himself.
“Why have you followed me?” she demanded. “I wished for a moment alone.”
“To apologize.” His expression was grim as he closed the distance, his long-legged stride bringing him to her far faster than she would have preferred.
He stopped near enough she could have slapped his cheek or grasped his coat sleeve. She did neither. But his scent, shaving soap and bay with lemon and musk, invaded her senses, curling around her. Fresh and bright and clean. He smelled of summer, of innocence, of temptation. Of her youth when she had believed him to be every bit as gallant as he had pretended.
